The
prophecies in the second half of the Book of Isaiah came to an exile in
Babylon. He or she spoke to other Jews
in exile, whose condition was a constant reminder of the horrors of war and
starvation, of the destruction of Jerusalem and the bitter shame of captivity
and deportation. To these people their
historical situation was not simply the result of failed policy. It was not merely a national defeat. It was a divine judgment. The memory of horror, and the pang of loss,
and the burden of oppression were constant reminders to these people of their
collective sins. They had squandered the
blessings of God’s covenant with them; they had betrayed God with idolatrous
worship, and injustice to each other, and violence toward their neighbors.
But
the word of God to them, through the prophet, is that the memory of guilt will
not decide their future —“the former things shall not be remembered or come to
mind,” says God, “for I am about to
create new heavens and a new earth.” In
spite of their hopeless situation, God’s dream for them is not over. If anything, it is coming more clearly into
view. God’s dream is of Jerusalem as a
place of peace and safety and justice.
It is a vision of a community living life to the full, without fear or
sorrow or want.
These
words must have seemed remote from the everyday experience of the people. But that is what makes them like a sudden
dawn breaking what felt like an endless night.
The vision of the prophet was like a dream, but it was a dream that
awakened them from the slumber of numbness and despair. It rang with a truth that ran counter to
everything that they could have reasonably assumed from a practical assessment
of their real life situation. The vision
of the new creation was a dream that could only have come from God.
Today’s
reading from the Gospel of Luke speaks to the turmoil of the second half of the
first century. It was the time of the
Jews’ bloody revolt against Roman rule, of the Romans’ savage campaign of re-conquest
and their destruction of Jerusalem and the second temple; it was the time of
the first waves of official persecution of those who identified themselves with
the name of Jesus Christ. These verses
remember a time when Jesus himself spoke of the fall of the temple, and of
turmoil and trouble and suffering in the world.
They recall his words of warning about those who would prey on the fears
and doubts that fill the air in such times, and put themselves forward as
Messiahs, claiming the power to make God’s promises come true.
And
we hear a further warning to Jesus’ disciples, that they would be put forward,
not as victors but as victims, as scapegoats and criminals. Jesus tells them of the ironic twist of
history by which their accusers will bring them before kings and governors, giving
them their moment to testify. It will be
their part, in the confusion of a world that seems to be coming to an end, to
speak the word of God; Jesus will put his own wisdom in their mouths, the words
of judgment and promise that open the door to the new creation: “The kingdom of
heaven has come near to you.” “Love your
enemies and bless those who curse you.”
“Those who are called great among you must be last of all and servant of
all.” “Have courage, for I have overcome
the world.”
I
grew up with a rather dismissive opinion of President John F. Kennedy. Once as a child I became fascinated with a
book in the town library; a coffee-table book full of photographs, it was about
his assassination and the days that followed, I went back to it again and again. But somewhere along the line I picked up the
idea that President Kennedy hadn’t really accomplished anything, and that if he
hadn’t been young and handsome, and given a great speech at his inauguration,
and died the way he did, he would be a minor figure in our history. And I didn’t find any reason to fundamentally
reconsider that opinion until very recently--just a few weeks ago, as a matter
of fact.
My
wife was out of town for the weekend, which meant that on Friday night I got to
watch what I wanted on TV, and maybe because of the upcoming 50th
anniversary of his death, I selected a documentary on JFK. In the course of the film they showed some
footage of the speech that he gave to the General Assembly of the United
Nations on September 20, 1963. In that
speech President Kennedy hailed the signing of the first major nuclear
arms-control treaty, the ban on atmospheric testing which he’d proposed two
years before. And he took the moment to
insist that this should be the first step toward ending the Cold War, not a brief
pause in its continuation. While
acknowledging profound differences between the superpowers, he laid out a clear
path toward comprehensive disarmament, and an intention to follow it, “building,”
as he put it, “the institutions of peace as we dismantle the engines of
war.” He made bold proposals for
cooperation among nations, including the Soviet Union, in science and
technology and economic and social development, and recommitted his support to
the United Nations as the cornerstone of global security under the aegis of
international law.
Near
the conclusion of the speech, he said the following: “But peace does not rest
in charters and covenants alone. It lies in the hearts and minds of all people.
And if it is not there, then no act, no pact, no treaty, no organization can
hope to preserve it without the support and the wholehearted commitment of all
people. So let us not rest all our hopes on parchment and on paper; let us
strive to build peace, a desire for peace, a willingness to work for peace, in
the hearts and minds of all of our people. I believe that we can. I believe the
problems of human destiny are not beyond the reach of human beings.”
The
thing that was most stirring to me about these words was that I could see that he
meant them. The film shows President
Kennedy leaving the podium after he had spoken, and making his way back to his
seat. And watching it I was transfixed
by the way he lowered himself tenderly down into his chair, his body in evident
pain, but even more I was moved by the expression on his face—humble, even a
little shy, but luminous with wonder at the privilege of speaking such hope to
a world in the grip of confusion and fear; it was the face of a man who has
tasted peace in his own heart, and knows what the word really means.
We
all know what happened next, and as we approach the 50th anniversary
of that terrible day, the most important questions are not the unanswered ones
about his death, but the ones about memory.
Is it just a memory of shock and grief, of where you were when you heard
the news? Is it memory of the man, of
glamor and charisma and glaring personal failings? Or is it a memory of the vision, of words
spoken at great political and personal risk, with the resolve do something
about them? Is it a memory of something
more than a murder, something more even than a man, something about God’s dream
for the world?
That
dream did not die in 1963 in Dallas, or in 1965 in Harlem, or in 1968 in Memphis
or Los Angeles. It did not die on
September 11, 2001, because violence cannot kill God’s dream of life and peace
for the world. It rises again and again
from the graves of its fallen witnesses and speaks in new voices and new
visions, because it is God’s promise to all people for all time. It is the new creation for which all things
in heaven and earth were made. That is
the message we come to this place, week by week, to remember, to say aloud, and
whisper in our hearts. That is the hope
we cherish here in large ways and in small, for nations at war and children in
the hospital, for families in need and a planet at risk, for the unknown and
unborn, and for the beloved dead. It is the
promise that gives power and purpose to our lives, because it is the dream that
makes the world come true.
No comments:
Post a Comment